Moonlight
by teaandcharcoalforbreakfast
Summary: It's the 1950's and England is as insecure as a nation can get. Thankfully, he has America to help him through it, even if it's only by taking little steps at a time. M for sex, but not really smut. Deanon from the Kink meme


Two fics in a day w00t~! But, of course, it has to be on the 4th of July when everything is bursting with "Happy Birthday, America!" fanfics.

Anyway, this one is probably one of the saddest things that I've ever written. I hope you enjoy it nonetheless~

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><p>England sighed as he unlocked the door and entered his old London house. It had been a very, very long day. Parliament was fighting as usual, keeping anything from really getting done. Sometimes he missed those days when the king would just tell him what to do and that was that. It was so much easier and less complicated. Of course, everything in life was far easier and less complicated back then too.<p>

Dear lord, that was almost a thousand years ago, wasn't it? At sixteen hundred, England was still far younger than many nations, but he was certainly getting up there. Maybe America had a point when he called him an old man. His heyday was certainly already gone, so did that make him middle-aged? England snorted; middle-aged at twenty-three, what a concept.

He was aching, too. Every inch of him was still sore from that bloody war. It shouldn't be surprising, really. He had almost died from that fucking Germany's bombings. He still woke up feeling ghosts of the air battles. But he had been so used to being able to do whatever he wanted, being the strongest and now… He just wasn't anymore.

As he kicked off his shoes, he realized with a jolt that Ulster hadn't attacked yet. Usually by this point the boy would have leapt on him, either for an adorable brotherly hug or to try to punch him. England hung up his coat, straightened his shoes, and decided that this warranted an investigation.

England climbed the stairs and walked down the hall to his little brother's room, avoiding stepping on the places that the creaking was the worst. He didn't bother to turn on the lights as he went. The Briton had lived in the house for ages and navigating the dark hallways was as easy and comfortable as breathing.

It seemed as though Ulster was still awake after all, since light was coming out through the crack beneath the door. England opened the door just enough to peek inside. The boy was curled up in bed, the thick handmade quilt wrapped around him like a mother's arms. He was snoring softly, so although England could only see the back of his head he knew he was unconscious. It was odd that he was asleep at such an hour since England usually had to fight to get him in bed before midnight, but he might have just been tired today. All of them were reeling from the war, after all. England quietly entered the room and kneeled at Ulster's bedside. The boy's eyes were shut, but his thick eyebrows seemed slightly scrunched together and his lower lip was jutted out just slightly in a little pout. Still, the rest of his body was lax, so even if his dream was bad, it wasn't a true nightmare. England noticed that there was a comic book open under Ulster's head. That, combined with the fact that the light was still on, meant that the boy had probably fallen asleep while reading.

Well, that was no good. It was probably uncomfortable and might ruin the book. England had never seen much attraction in comics, but his brother had picked it up from Japan and America had encouraged it in his regular visits. England gently eased the book out from under his brother's head and closed it, placing it on the bedside table. He brushed the dark orange fringe from Ulster's eyes, he really ought to take the lad to the barber, and kissed his forehead.

"Goodnight, darling," he said.

With a groan, England stood back up. Kneeling was not good for him anymore. He turned off the light and left the room, shutting the door behind him.

The island nation yawned. Come to think of it, sleep didn't seem like such a bad idea. It wasn't as though there was much for him to do tonight anyway. He walked further down the hall to his bedroom, but was surprised again by light coming from under the door. Now _that _was peculiar. He never left his light on. His eyes narrowed. He was about due for some punk to break into his house. They were tempted to learn something about the strange Mr. Kirkland who rarely left his house but to work and who hadn't aged a day as long as anyone could remember. They would probably want to steal something too, just to prove to their friends that they actually gotten in. Well, he couldn't have that now, could he? He grabbed the nearest thing that could be used as a weapon, a heavy metal picture frame holding a picture of himself and the other Allies on V - E Day, and swung the door open.

"Hey, babe. How ya been?"

"America…?" England breathed.

Well, that was unexpected. Instead of an older teenager dressed in black and trying to stuff his precious belongings into a bag, he found one completely naked save for his glasses lying on his side with a come-hither look on his face. England spent a moment just staring, just trying to take in America in all of his glory.

And he was glorious. His body was perfectly sculpted. He was always beautiful to behold, but normally he was just a little too muscular or a little too pudgy to be at the pinnacle of attractiveness. Not today. The muscles of his arms were splendidly rounded, but his stomach was splendidly flat. That itself was odd. When America was bothering to work out he would obsess over his abs because of how fanatical he was about his weight. It was then when England took in the shape of his tan lines, the perfect shape of an A-shirt on top, ending just above the knees on the bottom, with his ankles and feet also paler. A thought dawned upon the older nation: he didn't attempt to look like this. It was a byproduct of physical labor. The boy had been back on one of his farms in the south and working the days away.

That… that was far more arousing than it should have been.

Not that America was allowed to know that.

"You don't just break into someone's house and wait naked for them without warning!" England shouted, "I was about to call the police, and could you imagine how embarrassing that would be for both of us?"

"No you weren't," America said, grinning and sitting up, "You would have kicked anyone's ass who dared to show up. You're scrawny but ya still pack a punch, old man!"

England glared at him. Normally, America would have been right. Recently, though, England wasn't sure he _could _beat up even a human. "If you're trying to get me in bed with you, you're not taking a very effective route."

"Well I was until you ruined the mood."

"What mood? It's more annoying than arousing to stumble in on you naked. I've had a long day and I just want to go to sleep."

"Aw, come on, babe," America stood and walked over to England, smiling with sultry eyes, "You don't mean that."

England couldn't look into those big, beautiful blue eyes and lie, so he sighed and said, "Oh, alright. I'll appease your ravenous sex drive for one night."

America threw back his head and laughed, "I'm guessing you're going to lie back and think of yourself?"

England scowled at his boyfriend's sad attempt at humor and reached for the light switch.

America grabbed his hand, "Hey, wait a sec."

"What is it? Didn't you want to have sex?"

America frowned and brought England's hand to his chest, "I want to see you for once. I want to wear my glasses and I want the lights to be on."

England pulled both his hand and his gaze away, "Not tonight. Maybe next time."

"You've been telling me that since 1944, England!" America growled, "What's so wrong with being able to see?"

"It interrupts feeling," England said, his stock response to the question.

"Except for that you never let me touch you either," America snapped.

England blinked. He hadn't expected America to make that particular connection.

"I love you England. And I'd love every bit of you if you'd let me." He took both of England's hands in his own and the smaller nation had to look back. America's eyes were so innocent, so honest, so plaintive, "Why won't you let me?"

England bit his lip. It _hurt _to see him like that. It felt as though someone had grabbed his already aching heart and was slowly twisting it. But it didn't matter. There was no helping it. He pulled away and reached for the switch again.

America just grabbed him again, "England!" He looked mad now, but what did it matter? England was mad too.

"America, just let it be!"

America snarled and dropped his hand. "I've let it be for almost a decade! I've waited and waited, hoping that you'd finally let me see what you look like when we make love but you've never moved an inch!"

"What if I don't want you to see?" England demanded, "What if I already know that there's nothing on me that's worth seeing and don't need you to know exactly _how _unworthy my body is?" The younger man's eyes widened and his mouth opened slightly. England all of a sudden realized that he'd said too much, "Go home, America. If you can't, go get a hotel room."

"England, I'm not leaving you. Not after that."

"Go away," England said softly.

"I'm staying."

"Go away," England repeated, slightly louder.

"You can't make me. You need me here tonight."

"I _need _to be left alone. Now _leave," _England got into a defensive stance.

"No."

"I'm not going to let you do anything to me."

"I'm not going to," America said, "All I'm going to do is get you to realize what I see."

"I _have _seen, and that's why you can't."

America sighed, walked back to the bed and sat down, "Come here." He said softly, "I'm not gonna do anything," He held out a hand as though England was a wild animal he was trying to lure closer.

England would take his bait for now. He didn't think that America would try anything. The boy was too good. He stood before him, but didn't sit.

A smile flicked across America's face, but then it was gone again and his expression was even. He took England's hand, "It's your scars, isn't it? Well watch this." He placed England's hand on his collarbone and guided it across his upper chest, "Feel all those nicks there? All the little ones? Those are all the revolution. Every little thing that I did to break away from you hurt me too because I still loved you. I half wanted to stay with you until the end. These only scabbed over when most of the loyalists went to Canada. They're really tiny, though, so most people who see me shirtless never notice."

England scoffed, "Those are barely scars, America."

"I know, but I wanted to let you know that you're not the only one hurt by that. But if you wanna see the worst of it…" America turned around.

England thought he'd seen his back multiple times. He was wrong, because there was no way he could ever miss _that. That _being the huge, awful scar that crossed his back, going all the way from his right shoulder to his left hip. He lifted his hands to trace across it.

"It's your Civil War, isn't it?"

America nodded. "It still hurts sometimes. There's more, but I think that that's good enough." He turned back around and smiled, "See, I get it. Your scars are nothing to be ashamed of. They're nothing I wouldn't know from a history book. All it does is show me how much you've been through and how great it is that you've found somewhere you're safe. You feel better now?"

"No," England said.

"Come on, I showed you mine, and now I wanna see yours."

"It's not just about the scars, America," England said.

America furrowed his brow, "What do you mean it's not just about the scars?"

"Admittedly they're part of it, since I do have many horrid ones, but there's so much _more_ wrong with me than that."

"Well I can't see anything else."

"That's the goddamn point!"

He didn't need to go out and say that he was too damn thin and pointy in all the wrong places, and that no matter how hard he tried he could just not gain any weight. He didn't need to show America how tiny his waist was, how many ribs could be seen when he was shirtless.

However, apparently America could read his mind because he set his hands on England's hips and ran them up to the base of his ribcage before coming back down.

"You think you're too scrawny don't you?" He asked.

England stiffened. How did he-?

"France told me once that when you were younger you always tried so hard to put on muscle or fat. Neither of us thought you still wanted to. But hey," He smiled up at England, "I think you're fine like this." He allowed his hands to settle on England's bony hips, "I like the shape on you."

England blushed.

"Is this okay now, then?" America asked, tightening his grip a little bit to show what he was talking about.

England sighed, "I suppose. But I still want the lights off."

America smiled, "That's good enough for now."

"Does that mean you're still aiming for sex?" England demanded, hoping to get America to stop touching him as quickly as possible.

"Definitely," America said, looking at him with so much joy in his eyes, so much love, that England felt his heart being wrenched again. He didn't need to see that either, so he left America flicked the lights off, finally.

With darkness restored, England started to feel his libido surface. He returned to the bed and as soon as he did America's hands were on him again. He grumbled eased his lover down onto his back.

"Like this?" America asked.

England huffed, "Since you're so bloody insistent on touching me we can try it like this tonight."

"I'm glad," America said.

Oh god, he sounded like he was about to cry. Dammit, if he cried it was all over for England. The older nation slammed his lips against America's to keep him from talking and began to fumble with his trousers America tried to help, but England pushed his hands away. He wasn't ready for that yet. He broke the kiss long enough to pull off his sweater vest but was back by the time he started to loosen his tie. America lifted his arms again to try to unbutton his shirt, but England didn't let him do that either. It was enough that he was willing to try something that didn't involve America being on his knees.

Even working alone, England soon joined his lover in nudity. He quickly grabbed the lube from the bedside table and slicked his fingers to begin to prepare America. The nation beneath him hummed pleasantly and leaned up to kiss him full on the lips, and it hurt because America was so beautiful and so true and…

"Hey there," America said, pulling away, "Smile. You're so beautiful when you smile."

That didn't really help him feel better, but he did smile sadly even though America couldn't see him.

"I love you." America said, and England could_ feel _the love in his voice as he slicked himself up.

Before he had the chance to get too emotional, he pushed in. America let out a shaky sigh and wrapped his arms around England, pulling him closer. England would put up with that, but he couldn't deal with the way that America was running his hands up and down his back.

"Hold them still or I'll push you away," England warned.

"You're real romantic, ain't ya?" America asked, but his flippant tone couldn't quite cover up the fact that he was hurt.

England kissed him again, _"I'm sorry," _he thought, _"I'm so sorry." _

He began to move, trying to convey in thrusts what he couldn't say in words.

I wish that I was beautiful like you.

I wish that, since I'm not, you could accept me.

I wish that, since you would probably anyway because you're so damn naïve, I could accept me.

I wish that I could at least be romantic, even though I'm not much to look at.

I wish that I had something more to offer than that I love you.

Because I do.

I really do love you, America.

He didn't know what, exactly, his lover understood. All he knew was that when the younger nation came he groaned England's name and hearing those two syllables was what sent England over the edge. America pulled him back down and kissed him once again slowly, languidly, just to show him he meant every word he had said that night.

They paused to breathe and England stood. He walked over to his window, where the thick drapes stood closed, and threw the curtains open. The moonlight spilled into the bedroom, offering America his first view of England naked.

The older nation turned back to the bed. America was smiling at him, eyes full of love. England felt tears fill his own eyes, but he smiled at the same time.

It wasn't much, but it was still progress.

**History notes: **

"Almost a thousand years ago:" The signing of the Magna Carta was in 1215, and it was the first time that the King of England gave up any power to anyone (namely, smaller nobles, but it was a start).

Sixteen hundred: the English people are not actually originally from Britain. England comes from a phrase that means "Land of the Angles," the Angles being a Germanic tribe. The Angles (and the Saxons, thus Anglo-Saxon) began to invade in the fifth century and pushed the Britons westward until they wound up in Wales. So, basically, the fact that there are other nations in Great Britain makes England very young indeed…

Ulster: Ulster is a historical province in Ireland; six of the nine counties in that province now make up Northern Ireland. America would call him North, probably, but England uses Ulster because that's the usual British shorthand (the BBC uses "The Province", but Ulster sounds more like a name anyhow) I see him as a preteen or young teenager, since he was probably born in the late nineteenth or early twentieth century, sometime well after England took over Ireland but before the split. He's a little bit tsundere towards England, but most of the time he's in dere-dere mode. This is because from what I've heard most people in Northern Ireland like being British, but there are still people who want to become part of Ireland again (however, from what I've heard most of those live either in Ireland proper or in the US…). He has his own house, but Ireland is kinda scary, and he loves his big brother so he likes to stay with England. England is just happy that one of his siblings doesn't hate him and will do pretty much anything for the little guy.


End file.
